To Be What Is
by Windswift
Summary: Matthias' first present as warrior of Redwall is a pair of sandals. But surely, if he is really the Martin of legend, shouldn't he have grown to fit the sandals he tripped about in as a novice?


Set at the end of _Redwall_, a few days after the final chapter (before the journal entry)

Disclaimer: I don't own Redwall, that would be the domain of Brian Jacques, who I am not.

_**To Be What Is**_

The water of the pond was still and quiet, reflecting the clouds floating lazily by against a background of bright summer blue. Somewhere overhead the faint quarreling of sparrows drifted down from the rooftop. And any minute now, the Joseph Bell would be ringing for everyone in the Abbey to wake up—ah, no it wouldn't. He'd broken the bell, hadn't he? It wouldn't sound again until the Abbot found someone to reforge it.

Matthias leaned back into the grass, glad the sun had already dried up the dew. Had it really been just two weeks ago that he'd sat out here, with no other purpose or care? It seemed ages away, like asking Methuselah to recall his childhood.

All those ages ago he'd simply been Matthias, a little woodland orphan seeking refuge behind the big red sandstone walls of Redwall Abbey, a bumbling little novice, a naïve young mouse. And then everything had turned upside down when Cluny arrived, and the next thing he knew, there appeared ancient inscriptions from the legendary warrior of Redwall. Somewhere in advance, Martin had addressed him as "I—am that is" —as "I—Matthias."

He'd taken up Martin's duties without a thought, willing beyond complaint. But now that it was all over, poor little Matthias was tossed by the wayside. Did Martin just… go away, now that the Abbey was safe? Did he keep his sword by his bedside, always ready to protect? Was the mouse simply "Martin" now? Had Matthias… had Matthias ever existed at all? Was there any point in trying? He didn't feel much like Martin, and he believed he ought to realize if he was, so maybe he was just in the way. Just a tool, for when Martin needed him—no, for when the Abbey needed its warrior mouse.

The last day of the battle against Cluny was just a blur. But he kept seeing it in hazy dreams. The sunlight glinting from Martin's—his—sword, the red, the slain bodies—the bodies _he_ had slain—, Cluny's horrible face, and the loud, final gong of the Joseph Bell. He slept quietly, but his pillow was wet in the mornings. Was this how Martin felt, or were these just the nightmares of a child who couldn't measure up to what he was supposed to be?

He also had a rather detached memory of being in the gardens, and the taste of salt, and of feeling like a lonely, abandoned child. And the Father Abbot, dear old Mortimer, laying on his deathbed with a calm smile, his last words making sure that all was set for healing after a hard-won battle.

And then—he remembered this best, despite the odd way he'd been feeling for the past few days—Matthias recalled Cornflower, his fiancée, kissing him. Sweet little Cornflower, as solid and ordinary as the yellow ribbon tied around his right arm, a presence that pulled him out of the haze and chaos. She was something to hold on to—the best thing he could ask for right then.

But right now, he sat alone by the edge of the pond, wondering what came next. He would marry Cornflower, they would live in the gatehouse of the Abbey, and the rest of Mossflower would dwell in peace. It was what Matthias had fought for, but what did it all mean? With a sigh, he pushed the unanswered questions back into the depths of his mind.

Last night the Abbey creatures had held a grand celebration in Cavern Hole. A feast, to celebrate those still living; an ending to the mourning for the dead. Abbot Mordalfus had made a speech, and so had Constance. Then, Basil Stag Hare had gotten up and, with a comically elaborate bow, presented him with a box. Matthias remembered that the hare had called it his "first official present as Warrior of Redwall Abbey, and a jolly good one, old lad," and he had opened it. But as to what it had been, try as he might, he couldn't recall.

The box had been sitting on his bedside table, so he had taken it with him this morning. It was a nice wooden little chest, he noted, good for Cornflower to store something in later. As for now, he lifted the lid with a bit of childish excitement.

A pair of sandals lay inside.

That puzzled him, really. Admittedly, his old shoes were a little worn, and some of the brown stains might not be mud, but did they really deserve replacement? He pulled off his own and set both pairs of paw-wear on his lap to compare. Both were simple but well-made, of nice quality…

Ah. The gift pair, it seemed, were smaller. Matthias tried them on, and sure enough, they were a perfect snug fit.

It was so funny, really, to think that he was still walking around in the over-large sandals of a bumbling little novice who tripped and burned old Methuselah's whiskers, even if he didn't trip anymore. Still, it was truly odd, to think that he'd grown into all his responsibilities and duties, yet still didn't fit into his sandals.

No one could doubt Matthias' worth; he had proven himself ten times over to be an heir to Martin, and a true and compassionate warrior for the Abbey. And maybe… maybe that was what he was. Not a resurrected legend, but simply a living successor. He didn't have to fit into Martin's footsteps, he just had to keep to his path.

With all the revelations, all the changes, he had lost sight of himself. And then when Methuselah proclaimed him to be a beloved and fabled savior, Matthias had wanted to help immediately, instead of asking questions. But maybe, through it all, he hadn't really grown at all; he'd stayed more the size of a novice than a legend. Perhaps he was the same mouse he'd always been, but just a little bit bigger in the size of his heart, because he hadn't realized what hadn't been there before.

The tips of his whiskers lifted into a smile as he placed his old pair of sandals into the box. Matthias would give them to someone else—yes, someone with larger paws. He didn't have to tell them the shoes came from a clumsy novice, or were worn by a mighty warrior. They'd simply belonged to a mouse, who am that is—not Martin, but Matthias.

**…****  
End  
…**

_-Windswift Shinju_


End file.
